Archive of Our Own

"Hatter's out," are Tim's first words as soon as he senses her approach.

Steph groans. There went her hope for a quiet patrol tonight. "Again?"

"Yep," he absentmindedly confirms, eyes glued to the Batcomputer's impressive multi-screen display. He's still in loungewear, Steph is quick to take note, practically swimming in a worn-out sweatshirt he must have stolen from the back of someone's closet. "I'm pretty sure he even bribed the same guards as the last time."

Steph can't help the defeated sigh that escapes her just then. Look, it's no secret that Arkham's presumably unbreachable walls are on their way to becoming revolving doors at this point, but this is getting ridiculous. "Who's on duty?"

"It's just us and Damian until Cass gets back next week."

"And the bossman?"

"Off-world until further notice."

"Great." Steph slumps down into the nearest chair. "So there's no one else we can pawn this off on."

"We need to be proactive," he resolves unanimously. It's cool, though—Steph's not feeling particularly inclined to workshop any ideas at the moment. "We can't just send him back if he's going to break out in just a few days. It's a waste of resources." But more importantly, it's a waste of her time—and that's what Tim should be emphasizing.

"Good plan," Steph replies with a careless roll of her shoulders. "I'm sure we can get him to sit for a quick therapy sesh if we ask nicely."

Tim snorts out a laugh. "Yeah, not what I had in mind." He types in a few prompts, and a series of important-looking graphs and rigorously annotated spreadsheets pop up on the screens in front of him. "I've identified a pattern in the frequency of his previous breakouts. Data shows he's more likely to stay put after he scores a new hat."

"Go on." Steph perks up in her seat. Now that she knows to look for it, she can easily spot the manic twink to his eye that Tim gets whenever he's about to act a little unhinged. "I like where this is going."

Tim's lips twist into a mischievous grin. "How comfortable are we with ghostwriting a heist?"

"Extremely comfortable," Steph replies with an equally roguish smirk.

"You're being idiotic," Damian sharply intercedes as he makes his way back from the changing rooms, fully geared up and ready to take off for the night. "Batman would never stoop so low as to aid a criminal."

"Batman's not here," Tim is quick to remind him. "That leaves me in charge."

"Says who?" Look, Steph is generally the one in Tim's corner, but she's not about to do so blindly—and least of all, while he's brandishing such a blatantly indefensible argument. "You're not the boss of me."

"Okay, fine," Tim relents, bringing both hands up in the air to vent his frustration. "But you have to admit it's a pretty solid plan."

"It's juvenile."

"You're literally a child."

Damian tuts. "My age is irrelevant."

"Not when you're acting like you're so mature—"

"I'm game, obviously," Steph cuts in before their petty spat turns into a fistfight. "I have nothing else going on for me right now other than picking fights with the mentally ill, so that settles it."

Tim fist pumps in triumph, immediately vaulting from his seat with a graceful backflip that leaves him precariously perched on the chair's backrest. Steph can't help but snort at such a showy display—it's a well-known fact that all Robins (except perhaps Damian) derive unbridled joy from unnecessary gymnastics.

"Here's what I'm thinking," Tim leans in to explain while ignoring an increasingly exasperated Damian. It's a testament to his hard-earned perfect balance that he doesn't just topple over. "Obviously we can't let him get away with whatever hat he wants, but we can fabricate the need for a specific one and use that to our advantage."

"Will any hat do?" Steph asks.

He shakes his head. "It needs to hold a measure of significance. We can't just throw a snapback at him and call it a day."

"Sounds like a challenge," Steph says, that impish smile back in full force now.  "Whaddya say, Dames? Ready to have some fun at the expense of a B-list criminal?"

"You're a disgrace to the Bat's legacy."

Steph grins. That's not a no.

⁂

"Gentlemen," Tim greets his audience. "Steph." He sends a polite nod her way. "Thank you all for coming. As you know, the first order of business tonight is to come up with a suitable customer-driven marketing strategy."

"I hate it here," Steph groans, burying her face deeper into the surprisingly soft throw pillow she managed to snatch for herself. "Go back to being cool, please."

Tim predictably ignores her. "Sorry for the lack of a slideshow presentation this time—it was very short notice."

"What the hell are you doing in my apartment?" Jason barks once he finally emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam curling around his scantily-clad body.

Steph lifts her head just enough to cheerfully wave hello. He doesn't wave back, but the angry scowl he sends their way is not entirely homicidal, so he'll chalk that one up as a moderate success.

"Hatter's on the loose," is all Tim provides as an explanation.

"Do I care?" Jason rolls his eyes, pulling at the fluffy towel slung around his shoulders to messily dry his hair. "It's my night off."

"Sorry, Jay," Steph chips in, not sounding in the least apologetic. "It's all hands on deck for this one."

Jason scoffs. "It's Mad Hatter. Who gives a damn?"

"I mean, he brainwashes people," Tim feels the need to remind him, because he's always been in the habit of pointing out the obvious. "That's a thing that he does sometimes."

"Yeah, and he uses his evil tech to steal people's hats. Not on my list of priorities right now."

"Please. Like you have better things to do tonight." He wrinkles his nose. "You're literally lounging around in your underwear."

Jason crosses his arms, chin jutting up in defiance. "It's called self-care, bitch. Look it up."

"More like being a lazy ass—"

"When did you get your nips done?" Steph quickly diverts the conversation into less inflammatory topics. If they could finish the night without the need to fill out any injury reports, that would actually be ideal.

Jason immediately clamps his mouth shut around what's sure to be one caustic retort, frowning at his own pierced nipples like they personally wronged him. "...Like a year ago?" It takes a hot second for him to finally regain his footing and remember he's supposed to be angry at them. "Why do you care?"

She shrugs. "I've been meaning to get mine pierced. Think I could pull it off?"

"If you are quite finished discussing Todd's nipples," Damian interrupts from where he's kneeling over the dog's open crate, one hand extended for her to sniff at. He's been trying to gently coax her out of there for the past ten minutes, and with very little results. "I'd like to get this over with anytime this century."

"Stop harassing my dog." Jason swats him in the back of the head on his way to the adjoining kitchen. "She'll come out on her own terms once she gets used to the fucking circus camping out in my living room. You guys already ate?"

Steph sits up instinctively. It'll be a cold day in hell before she passes on the chance to taste the fruits of Jason's culinary prowess. "I want whatever it is you are having."

"Leftover honey chicken it is."

Steph whoops in excitement, nimbly leaping to her feet to help set the table. Jason takes the opportunity to slip into the bedroom while they wait for their food to reheat—moments later, he returns in gym shorts and a neon green hoodie that reads "You only live once" with the last word crossed out and big blocky letters now spelling "twice!" in black sharpie.

Once everyone is situated again, Tim clears his throat. "If I could direct your attention back to more pressing matters, please and thank you."

"Finally," Damian mutters, having now moved to sit cross-legged on a nearby footstool and idly browse one of the many books littering the coffee table.

Tim pulls out a mugshot from the manila folder he's been carrying. "Jervis Tetch," he says, showing the picture around for everyone to see. "Former neuroscientist turned rogue once his research grant got revoked due to unethical scientific practices. He's obsessive-compulsive, and highly delusional. Has an unhealthy fixation with the 1865 English novel Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll."

"This is pointless," Damian huffs in one of his usual bouts of petty annoyance. "We've all read his file."

"Look, we can move forward once we have a clear understanding of Hatter's buyer persona, okay? But first we need to ask ourselves what he wants."

Both Jason and Steph stare blankly at him. "Hats," they reply in unison.

"What kind of hat," Tim shoots back, just as deadpan.

"Something high profile," Damian chips in, book momentarily forgotten on his lap in favor of steepling his hands together in thought. Say what you want about Damian, but at the very least you could always count on him to give his all for the mission. "His primary goal has always been adding prestige to his collection."

"A statement piece," Steph readily agrees. "Preferably from a source he feels emotionally connected to. Let's not forget everything he does is a cry for attention."

Jason shakes his head. "You're giving this guy way too much credit. I've seen him attempt to steal a Bat Burger paper crown like they don't give those away for free."

"Speaking of which." Steph politely raises her hand to get their attention. She's still holding her fork with a baby carrot in it. "Does it specifically need to be a hat, or just some form of headgear?"

"Evidence seems to point to the latter."

Jason hums his assent. "Wasn't he supposed to be after the old man's cowl at some point?" he asks around a mouthful of chicken. "That's your answer right there."

Damian recoils. "You can't possibly be thinking of handing such a vital piece of equipment over."

"Why not? Sounds fun. Let's give him the keys to the batmobile next." Just then, one of the frankly alarming number of cellphones left charging on the kitchen island starts to vibrate with a call. Jason wipes his mouth with a napkin and motions to Steph to pass it over. "Toss me that burner."

Steph complies, but not without attempting to get a glimpse on whoever's calling him at such an hour. Tragically, it's not a saved contact, and she doesn't recognize the number.

"What?" Jason all but snaps into the receiver. 

"I vote we sacrifice Drake's cowl for the cause," Damian proposes with a poorly concealed smirk, completely unfazed by the interruption. "Certainly no one will miss it."

In an uncharacteristic turn of events, Tim doesn't rise to the bait, and instead seems to genuinely consider it. "We're on the right track, but I wore mine, like, twice, and he probably doesn't even remember it. We really need to shoot for iconic here."

"Rats?" Jason blurts out, clearly caught off guard by whatever's happening on the other end of the line. "Why the fuck should I care about rats?"

Tim stoically ignores Jason's outburst. "What about the hood?" He turns towards Steph, who is rather enthusiastically going to town on her mashed potatoes. "On a scale from one to ten, how likely do you think it'd be for Jason to volunteer a spare?"

Steph pretends to give it some thought—and when, exactly, she earned the title of resident Red Hood wrangler is completely beyond her. "Two," she eventually settles on, holding up as many fingers.

But Tim, never the one to obey the most basic of self-preservation instincts, merely shrugs at the number. "I mean, it's higher than one. We'll pencil it in as a maybe."

"...They got into the cocaine."

Tim and Steph immediately exchange bewildered looks. Needless to say, the odds of Jason willingly agreeing to participate in their half-baked plan just plummeted down to zero.

A dark shadow passes over Jason's eyes. "Rats," he listlessly repeats. "In my cocaine." 

It takes everything in Steph's power not to burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of that image. A quick glance Tim's way tells her he's in a similar predicament. Even Damian, now again flipping through his borrowed book with an air of affected disinterest, has his lips pressed into a thin line so as to keep his mirth from showing.

Jason scoffs. "No, I don't know Ratcatcher's work number. We're masks, we don't all just know—" He abruptly cuts himself off. "Bats, you idiot, those are bats." Jason's scowl only deepens as he listens to whatever his conversation partner has to say for themselves. "In what universe are bats rodents?" There's some more indistinct chattering on the other end of the line, and it's at this point that Steph is virtually incapable of holding back a snicker. "You know what? I don't care. Figure it out, and get back to me once it's been dealt with." 

Jason doesn't even wait for an answer before he's snapping the flip phone shut, nearly throwing it against a wall in his frustration. What follows is an uncomfortable stretch  of silence in which Tim pretends to be deeply engrossed in Hatter's file, and Steph has to actively restrain herself from obnoxiously whistling a show tune to really bring home the lie that she wasn't eavesdropping. 

Jason scrubs a hand over his face with an air of defeat. "I need to find better goons."

Privately, Steph thinks he needs to find a better way to store his surplus cocaine—but there's no way she's telling him that anytime soon. "Do you think my Batgirl cloak counts as a hat?" she tries changing the subject.

Tim shrugs. "It comes with a hood, so maybe?" But he doesn't sound all that convinced.

"...Arsenal has a hat."

Damian tuts. "Why would Hatter give two shits about a washed up wannabe hero from California," he sneers without looking up from his book.

"Hey! Watch your fucking mouth," Jason warns, not so subtly threatening him with his dinner knife. "We don't disrespect Roy in this house."

"He's a solid candidate," Tim says after a moment's consideration.

"Fits our basic criteria," Steph agrees, then proceeds to list them off with the aid of her fingers. "He's a well-known figure in the vigilante scene. Extremely competent, so stealing from him would feel like a challenge."

"Wears a stupid hat," Jason appends.

"Wears a stupid hat," Steph repeats with an effusive hand gesture. "I mean, the guy's in the Justice League. Would you pass on the opportunity to pull a heist on someone like that?"

"You seem to forget Hatter simply does not care about Arsenal," Damian huffs, puffing his chest in the indignant way he does whenever a plan is not up to his standards. "It's unlikely they crossed paths before."

"That can be arranged." Tim cracks his knuckles. "Time for some good old-fashioned mind control of our own."

⁂

"You want me to what?" Barbara blurts not half an hour later, after having just opened a secure line for them at the Clocktower.

"We need you to infect Hatter's laptop with a virus," Tim repeats matter-of-factly.

"No, I got that. I'm just confused as to why it's supposed to replace his Twitter ads with news sites reporting on the Justice League."

"It's part of a long con." Tim shrugs—a gesture that, by the way, goes entirely wasted on Barbara, who's very clearly not there to witness it. "We're trying our hand at surveillance advertising."

"You know what? I changed my mind. The less I know, the better," Barbara resolves with an exasperated sigh. "Can you get me an entry point into his system?"

"On it," Damian's voice crackles over their shared comm line. Unsurprisingly, it took very little convincing to set him on Hatter's trail. Damian doesn't shy away from strategizing, but he's a lot more eager to do the footwork than to sit around waiting for someone else to bring back results. "I'm following a lead on his current hideout. ETA ten minutes."

"Copy that. Keep us posted."

"Hey, O," Steph chimes in from where she's hunched over Jason's laptop, "Can you make it so that the virus filters out any Wonder Woman mentions, too? We don't want Hatter to get any wrong ideas." She lifts her head to address the rest of the team. "Because of the tiara."

"Right." Tim nods along. "It's a form of headgear."

“...Right,” Barbara mirrors after an awkward stretch of silence. “I’ll get to it, then. Hit me up whenever things are ready on your end. Oracle, out.” There's a soft click, and then the line goes dead.

"Let’s take a moment to review our strategy," Tim swiftly directs their attention towards their makeshift evidence board. Sadly, there was a distinct lack of its one key component (the board) in Jason's apartment, so they had to make do with creative use of fridge magnets and brightly colored notes affixed to the metal grilles of the foot-to-ceiling slanted windows. "We know Hatter's primary concern at the time should be acquiring the funds for his next heist." Tim says, pointing at the purple note with hastily drawn dollar signs that's precariously held in place with a banana-shaped magnet. "Luckily we're understaffed, which makes it plausible for us to ask Arsenal to serve as backup in the event of a bank robbery."

"That we're staging," Steph helpfully clarifies.

"That we're totally staging," Tim agrees with a nod, then points to another note linked with a near imperceptible thread that may or may not be actually used for suturing. (The magnets had a hard time holding the weight of anything thicker.) "Once we fabricate a personal interest in the Justice League, all we need to do is present Arsenal as an achievable target. But first, we need Roy to be in Gotham by the time Hatter makes his next move."

Jason gives a lazy thumbs up from where he's sprawled on the soft rug, on his back and with one sleepy rottweiler resting its head on his belly. He's very pointedly not looking at Tim, instead leafing through a worn-out copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that's definitely seen better days.

Tim frowns, a bit unsure if the admittedly halfhearted gesture counts as Jason's actually volunteering for the job, but moves onto a different colored note and its respective novelty magnet anyway. "Response time is our strongest argument to get Roy to cooperate, so to get this to work we'll need Hatter to target the banks on the East End. Now, there's well over fifty banks in Burnley alone—but Hatter's need for an audience plus his penchant for conducting crimes at teatime makes it so we can narrow down our candidates to the branches that are open after 6pm. Steph?"

"I got you, boo." She passes two more messily scribbled notes over. "Here's you list, and a little doodle of a dog to join your murder board there," she tells him cheerfully. "Might also wanna know Jay's got a couple folders with some very detailed architectural plans of most of those banks here."

Jason doesn't even look up from his book. "Eat the rich," he shoots back with absolutely no inflection.

Tim takes a moment from pinning the new additions to their board just to massage the bridge of his nose in frustration. "One bank robbery at the time, please."

Steph has her next witty remark practically locked and loaded—but it's around that time that a seemingly inconspicuous pop-up notification on her screen catches her eye, and she promptly loses all focus. "So, Jay." Steph smirks. "Any particular reason you have an incoming video call at such a late hour? Wait—nevermind." Her face falls. "It's just Roy. I thought it'd be someone juicy." 

Jason blurts some colorful swears as he gracelessly stumbles to his feet, not so gently jostling the dog in the process. "Don't answer that," he instructs a little curtly.

"Why not? He's got perfect timing."

"I'll handle it," Jason answers, already halfway out the window. If Steph cranes her neck, she can just barely catch a glimpse of a phone being held to his ear as he climbs out into the narrow stretch of balcony outside. "You guys keep doing whatever."

And with that, Jason just shuts the window behind him, leaving a highly confused Tim staring blankly into the air for what feels like a full minute. "What the hell was that about?"

Steph shrugs. "Beats me. Any news on the gremlin?"

As if on cue, their shared comm line crackles to life again. "I've located our target," Damian perfunctorily reports. "Tetch and his associates have hunkered down on a dilapidated building in Southeast Otisburg. Security measures are laughable—I should be able to plant a device to enable remote hacking with ease."

Yeah, that should probably do the trick—not that Barbara hasn't done a lot more with less, obviously. She even managed to exploit a vulnerability in a slushie machine to get a foothold in the Iceberg Lounge's network once. 

"Copy that," Tim responds, effortlessly slipping back into his master tactician persona. Not to be confused with his public relations persona, which is the one that takes over whenever he has to do damage control for Bruce in the wake of yet another methodically fabricated scandal. (And believe her—there's quite a lot of them. Honestly, every day that goes by is another Steph is so fucking grateful she's not actually part of that family.) "You're clear to proceed."

"Acknowledged. Going dark now." 

And that's all the warning they get before the line goes silent. 

Tim taps his earpiece twice to get Barbara's attention. Just a little ways behind, Steph can barely make out Jason's broad frame silhouetted by the city lights as he leans against the balconet's plain parapet wall. "Oracle," Tim calls. "Robin's in position."

"I'm pulling up his coordinates," Barbara answers without delay. "Are you sure you don't want me to just tip the police? We literally have his location."

"We have it covered."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Sorry, O," Steph intervenes, much too cheerfully for someone who is meant to be apologizing. "It's more fun this way."

Barbara clicks her tongue, but wisely doesn't push the subject. A lifetime of exposure to their wacky antics has made it so she fully understands that once an idea gets into their minds there's just no stopping them until they see it through. "I'm opening a private line for me and Robin. We'll get back to you once we're all set here." Another soft click, and they're left alone again.

"Anyway. Now that that's being dealt with," Tim once again commands her attention. Steph dutifully leaves the laptop aside to look the part of the captive audience. "Let's move on to getting Hatter to pick from our selection of banks—and here's where it gets tricky. I propose we hire about a dozen actors, dress them up with a variety of hats advertising our desired banks, and then—"

"Alright, I got Roy for the weekend, but you absolutely owe me for this," Jason interrupts the moment he climbs back inside. 

"Did you get him to bring his gear?" 

Jason heavily flops down on the couch. "This ain't amateur hour, Timbo," he answers with an eye roll. Then he pats his thigh, and Steph has to hurriedly scoot to the side so as to make room for the dog who excitedly clambers into his lap. "I told him I needed help blowing up a bank."

"Cool," Tim replies a little absently, turning his back on them as he shifts his focus back to their evidence board. Then it hits him: "Wait, what?"

Jason merely waves a dismissive hand at him. "Don't worry about it."

⁂

In hindsight, maybe they should have worried about it. But what's done is done, and now there's one less potential target to factor into their plans. As it happens, Steph is a firm proponent of keeping a positive outlook in life. What's a little arson between friends? Raise your hand if you're a vigilante who's never been the cause of unnecessary property damage while in pursuit of justice.

…At least she thinks Jason was in pursuit of justice.

Anyway.

What matters is that Roy is comfortably parked on Jason's couch when Oracle issues a call for all available heroes to respond to a bank robbery in progress. Jason declines on account of his recent participation in a bank-related felony of his own, which of course prompts Roy to volunteer himself as backup. He's not even supposed to have access to their network—but that hasn't stopped him from building a backdoor of his own, or so it seems.

"Didn't you also blow up a bank, like, yesterday?" Steph can't help but ask over their general channel.

"Difference is, I didn't get myself caught on tape." And okay—he's got a point there. While Jason has no qualms about loudly announcing his crimes to beef up his street rep, Roy has always been smart enough to keep his participation hidden from the public eye. It probably wouldn't do anyone any favors if the truth came out that a Justice League reserve member regularly teams up with a crime lord. "Meet you there in ten?"

About nine minutes later, Steph grapples into a nearby roof just to find Arsenal already casing the scene. The snapback he's wearing is just about the ugliest shade of mustard she's ever seen, and has the (rather unfortunate) inscription "YOU'RE IN TRUOBLE" embroidered in thick blocky letters. Steph can definitely picture Jason encouraging him to wear this monstrosity with the knowledge that it will most likely be lost as collateral damage in their quest to catch a hat-obsessed maniac. Personally, she's more than prepared to sacrifice what she's now dubbed as the piss hat to such a noble cause.

"Why's that woman kinda dressed like a Playboy bunny?" Roy asks without shifting his gaze from the high-tech tablet he's got playing live security footage from inside the building.

Steph shrugs. Honestly, she's become completely desensitized to Gotham's specific brand of weirdos. "That's the March Hare. She's with the Wonderland Gang."

Roy tilts his head to eye her skeptically. "Like the Disney movie?" There's a short pause as his brow furrows just slightly, and then he lets out a low chuckle. "I meant the book, obviously."

"Tell Hood I want in on your private comms, too."

"No dice, Blondie." He grins. "Can't have you butting in on our bro time. I'm guessing it's just us, then?"

"Just us."

He nods, collapsing the tablet into a more conveniently sized device and then pocketing it. "Ready to take point?" he asks next—and okay, Steph was kind of half-expecting this, but she's still pleasantly surprised. Roy may have seniority in the hero business, but this is Gotham. Her city, her rogues. It's nice to get the work she does recognized, for a change. "I have a good vantage point by the east exit if you want me as a sniper."

That will not do. She needs him down there, front and center. "They don't expect us to show up together as a team. You set up a distraction, and I'll slip in from the back to take care of the hostages."

"Sounds like a plan," Roy agrees easily, hefting himself up into the ledge with his grapple on the ready. "Anything I should know?"

"Hatter's a little deranged, but not necessarily cruel. He probably won't shoot to kill. The twins…" She makes a so-so gesture with her hand. "It's always a gamble with those two. Also, the Hare likes to hit below the belt when given the chance, so stay sharp."

"Guard the family jewels. Got it."

"And don't trust anyone wearing a hat," she adds as an afterthought. "They're probably mind controlled."

"They're probably what?" Roy asks, but it's too late. She's already leapt off the building, gracefully performing a couple unnecessary flips as she goes because, hey—she used to be a Robin, too.

⁂

Steph would love to say their plan goes down smoothly, but that's never the case in Gotham.

"Blondie," Jason's gruff voice cuts in through her comms. "You might wanna speed things up over there. Arsenal's making quick work of your goons."

Steph bites back a curse as she hurries the last of the hostages down a side corridor that should lead them to the emergency exit. "The twins?"

"Already taken care of."

"And the Hare?"

"Still kicking." Probably not just metaphorically. "But the rest of the gang is down for the count."

"Shit."

Jason snorts. "I mean, what else is new. All that Unicorn guy does is headbutt people." Jason has a point—Hatter's henchmen are not exactly the pinnacle of villainy. In hindsight, they might have not fully thought this through. "Wait, forget I said anything. Hatter's bought you some time, but he's still a no-show."

Hostages taken care of, Steph pivots and breaks into a sprint. "Do you have eyes on the scene?" 

"Obviously," Jason snorts, amusement evident in his voice. "Just his bodycam, but I'm definitely hacking into the security feed to get better footage. This is golden."

She takes a sharp turn left, switching comm lines as she goes because anything that elicits such levels of entertainment in Jason can only mean trouble. "How's everything on your end, partner?"

"Just peachy," Roy is quick to reply, sounding just a little out of breath but thankfully not in immediate peril. "Could do without the small gaggle of mind-controlled senior citizens in flat caps, though."

Ah. That old chestnut. "Need back up?"

"No, I'm—" But suddenly there's a loud thump, and then a sharp intake of breath followed by pained wheezing. "Son of a bitch."

Jason immediately starts losing his shit over their shared comm link. "Ignore that," he manages to get out in between peals of laughter. "Someone smacked him in the gut with a walker."

Steph winces. "Are you sure—"

"He's got it handled," Jason assures, and it's all Steph can do to take his word for it as she retraces her steps and heads for the teller line. "Arsenal's just a little pissy he's got his shit handed to him by a guy wearing dentures, but he can take it—can't you, Red?"

"Fuck off," Roy huffs. "You know I can't fist fight an 80-year-old."

"Better get creative, then."

A quiet metallic hiss reverberates across the line—and Steph doesn't know enough about Arsenal's equipment to be certain, but there must be some manner of knockout gas in at least one of his trick arrows. "Is that creative enough for you?"

"It'll do."

Not going to lie here, Steph low-key regrets asking to be let into their private comms once it becomes clear this is the kind of riveting conversation she's been missing. But luckily, all background chatter dies out as soon she swings one door open and immediately zeroes in on her target. 

Mad Hatter doesn't look up from the three large duffel bags he's been haphazardly shoving wads of cash into. "Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?" he sing-songs cheerfully. "Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full!" 

And with that he abruptly stands, swinging all three duffels around with as much grace as you would expect from a rather unathletic man in his mid-forties. Steph effortlessly rolls out the way—also with as much grace as you would expect from a seasoned vigilante who regularly spars with the very best (Cass)—then aims one solid left hook to the jawline.

"One for the master," she takes over once the hit lands. Hatter goes flying back through the reinforced glass that separates the teller line from the main lobby, and Steph follows in one artfully executed handspring. "And one for the dame." She seamlessly transitions into a dropkick that knocks the Hare over. "And one for the little boy who lives down the lane." She throws one final wink at Roy, who just blinks dumbfoundedly back at her from where he stands amongst quite the number of unconscious elderly citizens.

"I'm taking some time off after this," he deadpans—and naturally Jason reacts by breaking into borderline hysterical snickers.

The crunching sound of footsteps on broken glass alerts her to the Hare's next attack, so Steph instinctively backs away and puts herself out of reach. Hatter takes the opportunity to scramble to his feet while the henchwoman lunges—and then it happens. 

The moment they've been waiting for.

For a second, Steph thinks, Mad Hatter is literally heartstruck by Arsenal's headgear-donning presence. His wide eyes take in the piss hat with such genuine devotion that Steph low-key has to dedicate a moment to grieve the fact she'll never get herself someone who looks at her the way Hatter looks at the piss hat. It's quite a sobering thought, if she's being honest.

But it's as soon as Roy nocks his next arrow that Steph belatedly realizes that she simply can't let this man go against Arsenal's combat mastery. Mad Hatter is a notably crappy fighter, the kind of criminal who'd much rather watch from the sidelines while his goons enact the wickedly convoluted scheme of the week. If she doesn't think fast, Roy's going to take him down in two seconds flat. It's time to take one for the team. Like, literally. And so, Steph lowers her arms and really just hopes for the best.

The sharp kick that connects against the side of her head sends her tumbling down against the counter with enough force to break it. The impact knocks the breath out of her, leaving her with barely enough time to react before her assailant readies her next punch. Roy immediately switches targets and aims his next shot so that it pins the Hare down by one of her stupid sleeveless cuffs. A second arrow pierces clean through her cottontail, not as means to restrain but simply to show off his deadly accuracy. Steph would honestly be impressed if she wasn't having such a hard time getting the room back into focus again.

It's the mindless destruction of her (frankly gratuitous) outfit that sends March Hare into an outrage, causing her to violently rip her arm free and charge at the man responsible. Hatter's not too far behind, and so Roy is left to fend for himself against a two-pronged attack. Hare goes low. Hatter goes high. There's really no contest on who's the bigger threat in this particular scenario—so when Roy blocks one powerful knee strike to the crotch, Hatter uses the distraction to swipe the piss hat off Roy's head and books it.

There's a tense moment in which everyone stops whatever they're doing just to stare blankly at Mad Hatter's retreating back. Steph has the distant awareness of Jason's raucous laughter filling her ears though the comm line.

"Jesus fuck, not again," the Hare groans after a long beat.

That little outburst it’s enough to pull Steph out of her stupor, and so she takes the opportunity to sweep the Hare off her feet and onto her back. From then on, it doesn't take much for Steph to easily overpower her. She's probably a little concussed, but morale is soaring high after a job well done.

Roy barely reacts beyond passing one brightly colored zip tie along, eyes still trained on the building's main entrance. "...Should we go after him?"

"Nah," Steph is quick to dismiss that thought. "GCPD will probably get him." And if they can't, she doesn't say, Tim's on standby just a few blocks over. "Money's all here anyway."

"If you're sure," Roy answers a little dubiously, bringing one hand up to comb through his now loose hair. "What the hell was that about?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Jason replies in her stead, voice dripping with a poorly concealed mirth. "Can't have shit in Gotham."